


A Devil Brought Me Marigolds

by Sanguis



Category: Original Work
Genre: Demonic Possession, F/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Not Beta Read, Possession, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24231652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguis/pseuds/Sanguis
Summary: Sometimes that old Victorian house you bought for cheap is haunted. Sometimes, this is a good thing.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	A Devil Brought Me Marigolds

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this within an hour and a half cheers
> 
> 28/12/2020: minor edits

The house is perfect.

It’s an old Victorian thing—renovated, of course. Frank is not about to start DIY-ing an old house; he has a book to write. The time his job had taken up is now his own for two months. Their savings had gone into buying this house, this beautiful suburban thing built so long ago it remembers carriages and the advent of lighting.

“Don’t look like that, Helena,” he tells his wife. The corners of her mouth are turned downwards, but her face remains otherwise neutral. “This will be good for us.”

Frank had only managed to convince her because the house had been so cheap. Their savings hadn’t suffered at all. Of course, she had complained about it being cheap, too—Helena is always complaining, never ready to take the chances of life with both hands and just running with them.

Their children do run. Mackenzie toddles after her older brother Skylar; she’s only just learnt how to walk, but Skylar is older and faster. He disappears further into the house, and a short moment later, the movers shout. With a sigh, Helena goes after Skylar.

It’s dark. The house may have seen the advent of lighting, but its lamps and fixtures don’t know the meaning of light. They flicker and fizzle out, consistent only in that they’re unreliable. To Frank that adds to the mystique and mystery of his new house. His true crime novel will surely be a hit now. A bestseller.

Helena wants him to fix ‘the lighting issue’. He doesn’t, of course; he’s too busy writing. The main character has just bought a house, and he’s looking into its history.  _ Fred  _ has no wife to nag at him about fixing lights or about how the attic feels strange.

Right, the attic. Frank’s in the attic, or at least should be. From the outside, the attic is only a window. It’s so dark here, though, that Frank thinks the window must be an illusion; when he had come up here, it had been a bright day, and the children had been playing in the garden. He can’t really hear them now.

He can’t move either, actually. He can’t tell whether he’s laying down on his back or on his chest, and he can’t  _ move. _ All he feels is the panicked beating of his heart as that realisation sinks in.

_ Shh _ , says a voice in the dark.  _ Hush now, settle down. I’ve got you. _

It’s not Helena. It’s not a woman, not even a man. It’s unlike anything Frank has heard, with its lilted tones and a faint hiss. The darkness seems to press against his skin, and he’s certain something within it  _ moves _ , even though he doesn’t see anything.

“Who—” his voice cracks, “who are you?”

Something shifts, and laughs. The  _ darkness _ laughs; Frank feels the vibrations against his skin. It’s only then that it occurs to him that he hadn’t heard the voice it all—he’d  _ felt _ it, vibrating, rippling against his skin.

_ This is a dream _ , he thinks. What does he remember from before? He’d gone up in the attic. The ladder up had been sturdy despite its age, but the latch had jammed. Frank had put his shoulder against and  _ pushed _ until the latch had finally moved, and all the dust in the world had fallen onto him like some rough baptism.

His flashlight had flickered when he’d pointed it into the attic. The circular window had let some light in more successfully than the flashlight, and Frank had decided to climb up to investigate further. The latch had fallen shut, and that was when Frank had made his first, thrilling discovery: a sigil, written in white chalk.

The darkness laughs. It crawls over Frank’s arms and legs, and the question echoes— _ who are you, who are you, who are you? _

A face appears in front of Frank, and it is his own. It grins unnaturally and says, “I am you.”

The house feels lighter.

Helena can’t put her finger on it, but she wakes on Sunday morn and is refreshed, like she has settled. Outside, the birds chirp, and the sun is up. The children still sleep, which she only knows because Skylar isn’t running up and down the hallway, unable to stop himself.

He has ADHD. She’d gotten him a proper diagnosis, but she’d never involved Frank in this. He would find a way to blame her, as if their son having ADHD is something worthy of blame, rather than just a part of how the beautiful human being that is their son.

Frank isn’t in the bed with her, which is odd. He sleeps in on Sundays. He sleeps in on most days now, leaving her to deal with the children. Then he goes up into his office and tinkers away at his book, leaving her to deal with the children, the house, and everything else.

With a sigh, Helena rolls out of bed for a quick shower. She has a small window of time before Skylar comes barrelling down the stairs, shrieking in happiness and desperately hungry. Mackenzie will wake a bit later, but she’ll start crying if she’s not taken out of bed quickly.

Helena’s breakfast must be quick. She hadn’t prepared anything beforehand, so it’ll either be a shake or some yoghurt. If she’s feeling especially decadent, she may add some frozen fruits to it. She’s feeling a bit decadent today.

Someone is in the kitchen, humming. The voice is Frank’s, but she’s never heard him  _ hum _ before. He must have found something good in the attic, then.

Bracing herself, as she always does before she interacts with her husband, Helena goes into the kitchen. She stops dead a few paces in, her eyes clearly lying to her about what they see, because it is impossible that Frank, her husband of ten years, is making breakfast. Cooking.

_ Cooking is a woman’s job, _ he insists. As if she doesn’t know that should she ever leave him alone without lunchboxes and pre-made meals, he would simply have to order out. He’d tried cooking once. It had been bland and terrible.

“Oh, good morning!” says Frank, and the phrase sounds unnatural coming from him. Frank doesn’t wish you good mornings. He merely appears in front of you expecting coffee.

“Good morning?” Helena says.

“You like your eggs runny, yes?” asks her husband.

Helena nods. “You remember?”

“Of course,” says Frank, and he smiles winningly, that same smile that had first drawn her to him, only it’s not quite right. Oh, the smugness is there, but there’s a  _ kindness _ that she’s never seen or felt from him. He says, “How can I forget how my wife likes her eggs?”

How, indeed. Frank has never cooked for her. The most he does is bring her roses on their anniversary, and Helena doesn’t even like roses. After the third time, she had given up and simply accepted the bouquet, leaving it up for the evening. Frank expected sex as reward for remembering the anniversary, for bringing her roses she doesn’t like. In the morning, Helena would always throw the bouquet out. Frank never seemed to notice.

“Did you discover anything up in the attic?” she asks politely. At first, she had been genuinely interested in Frank’s novel, had even read a few pages. She had quickly come to realise, however, that Frank is a  _ terrible _ author who can just about string a few interesting words together but absolutely does not understand character or conflict.

The protagonist’s wife, Hannah, is brutally murdered on the first page.

This Frank, the one that knows she likes her eggs a bit runny, shrugs. “A few boxes, some pots and pans. No creepy dolls, fortunately.”

_ Fortunately? _ “Isn’t that what you wanted? Creepy dolls for your book?”

“Oh, the book.” Frank waves his hand in mild annoyance. “I’ve decided to take the time off to spend with the children. Mackenzie’s getting so big! And Skylar is starting school soon, so we won’t have him around the house as much.”

_ You’re not my husband _ , Helena thinks. Nothing has ever been more important to Frank than that book—not her, not even their children. Helena has tried not to let that hurt, has tried to simply live with it between them. It’s a stale sort of life, and the same staleness stares back at her from the mirror.

He puts her eggs on a plate, ready with toast. Her coffee is there, too, no milk, two sugars. She says, “Thank you.”

Frank beams at her. He must have already eaten; there’s no plate for him. The clock says it’s eight in the morning, which is a little later than Helena is used to, and so, so much earlier than Frank has ever been up when he’s not had work.

“What are your plans for today,” Frank asks, “and can I interest you in a walk to the nearest little park?”

She nearly chokes on her toast, but manages not to by drinking some coffee. “A walk?”

“It’s Sunday,” and he smiles sunnily at her. “A walk would do us all good.”

They haven’t gone on a walk since their honeymoon. Oh, they’d done all the romantic walks when they had dated, but that seems like aeons ago, when her hair had still been full and lush, when she hadn’t had bags under her eyes, or crow’s feet around her eyes.

For a few moments, she can only stare at this man, her husband, who for the first time in ten years had asked her out on a walk. It would be a lie if she said she didn’t feel just a little dumbfounded.

“Sure?” Helena says. “Sure.”

She has no plans. All plans are moved to Monday so that she has at least one day partially to herself. In the quiet moments when the children nap, Helena draws a bath for herself, reads a book, paints her nails, does her hair. Only one activity at a time, though, because God knows the children don’t stay down long enough for her to relax properly.

Speaking of Monday.

“Remember you have to call the bank tomorrow,” she says. “The bank statement looks off. We can’t have had such large expenses.”

“Can you do it?” Frank asks, and it’s the most normal thing he’s said today, except it isn’t. It’s not said in that same dismissive tone he uses for most household chores or child-tending responsibilities; it’s said in  _ earnest _ . He says, “I would, but even if I knew the initial query, I don’t know what to ask them afterwards. You’re so much more on top of our financial matters than I am.”

Frank has never been good at finances. Oh, he boasts about how good his management skills are, he boasts about how smart he is, how he went to a prestigious college, and Helena got her degree at a community college. Frank doesn’t have a degree.

And Frank had been the one to book them a vacation to Edinburgh, when they’d lost Alanna, when Helena had been so desolate she’d taken off on foot to her mother’s house. The trip had made little Skylar so  _ happy _ , and Frank had boasted about the deal he’d gotten, about how good he was at finding these things.

He hadn’t been the one who’d had to face their landlord and explain that they couldn’t pay rent. He  _ had _ been the one who had then walked proudly and paid the money that Helena had cobbled together from odd jobs, from carefully saving. He hadn’t been the one to check their savings before they’d bought this house, meticulously measuring how big of a chunk could be taken out without leaving them helpless should they ever need to use those savings.

Things are significantly better now that she has a stable, well-paying job. Her next promotion would see her earn more than Frank, but she will never tell him that. It would start another row about how  _ he _ should be the one to provide, about how she should quit her job, about how Hendrik obviously only gave her a raise because he wanted to  _ fuck _ her.

Sometimes, Helena wishes Hendrik  _ would _ just fuck her. Maybe she’d finally  _ feel _ something other than aching numbness.

“How about,” says Frank, “you handle the finances as you always have, and I take care of the children. When you feel refreshed, we’ll share the children equally.”

_ You’re not my husband, _ Helena thinks,  _ but I like you. _

Up above comes a wail. Mackenzie has woken up, and by the sound of it Skylar must’ve had something to do with it. Helena makes a move to stand, but Frank is quicker on his feet and already halfway through the door.

“I’ll go!” he says cheerfully. “You, enjoy breakfast.”

  
  


“Let me go!” Frank shrieks against the darkness.

It has been days, perhaps weeks, perhaps months, definitely years. The face, his face, had gone, but it haunts his mind’s eye. He hasn’t slept. He hasn’t eaten or even felt the need to. He  _ has _ heard his wife’s voice sometimes, talking, laughing, giggling. He hasn’t heard Helena giggle since they were young and child-free, and now even her laughter sounds different. It sounds  _ happy _ , genuine.

He has no idea what’s happening out there, but it can’t be good.

“LET ME GO!”

The darkness shifts. Something vibrates against Frank’s skin, and it seems irritated. No face appears this time, but this thing that has him in its clutches is here.

“I’m in the middle of something,” it says, “and I would prefer to give it my full attention. Helena deserves that, don’t you think?”

He hears it, then, faintly—moaning, a soft  _ yes _ . Helena has never sounded like that, so relaxed and blissed out. Frank had been her first, and she’d been a little disappointed.  _ Don’t worry _ , he told her,  _ most women don’t enjoy sex. The ones that do are whores. _

But she  _ is _ enjoying it now, and it’s not even Frank’s doing. “What are you doing to her?”

“Oh, a little bit of this thing called cunnilingus,” it responds. “ _ You  _ would never, of course; you’re too interested in your own pleasure.” It sighs. “Now, out with it, quick. What do you want?”

“Let me go,” Frank pleads. He can hear Helena’s little moans, and it’s disturbing. He thought he’d done well; at times he was even certain he’d made her orgasm. This, though,  _ this _ sounds genuine, and it’s not his doing.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” the darkness says. “That’s out of the question. You stepped into my attic, your soul is now mine.” It shifts, trills, hums. “I can make you a deal, though.”

Eager, Frank says, “Tell me.”

Another hum. “Well, if you stay very, very quiet, if you’re a good little boy,” it chuckles, “then I won’t eat your children’s souls, not even your wife’s. I’ll only harvest you.”

Frank doesn’t even consider it. “No. You let me out. You let me  _ out _ of this—”

With something akin to a yawn—Frank feels it on the back of his arms, the hairs moving as if pushed by air—the darkness turns away. For a moment Frank can clearly, so clearly hear Helena as she  _ pleads _ with this thing, the ultimate bliss so near he can taste it on her lips, but then that is gone and he has only the stillness in the dark.

So he starts screa—

The house is home, warm and safe.

Summer comes to a close, and they see Skylar off to his first day of proper school. Since Frank has a month left of his time off, he can take care of Mackenzie.

Helena’s friends have come by, and they all like the house, like what they’ve done to the place, like the yard, like the neighbourhood. They like Frank, too, say that he’s so different now, so kind,  _ the house has done both of you good. _

Because Helena is good now, too. She feels lighter, she sings again, she plays with the children out in the yard, and Skylar makes her flower crowns, makes Mackenzie shriek with laughter when he mimics dinosaur noises. They’re so  _ happy _ .

She combs her dark hair and delights in how full it has become again. Her reflection is no longer stale, the bags under her eyes have gone. Her curls are full and healthy. She needs to go to the hair salon as soon as the lockdown lifts, but perhaps she will do the trim herself, like she’d done for the children.

The children laugh downstairs, and Frank’s baritone hums along with them. It’s their anniversary today, and that hasn’t felt like a curse since she’d remembered it a week ago.

Helena goes downstairs, enjoying the way the skirt of her dress bounces. She’s barefoot, and the carpet of the stairs feel soft under her feet.

Frank waits for her at the bottom of the stairs. He holds out a bouquet for her—marigolds, tulips, daisies. The combination of oranges, reds, and yellows is beautiful and makes her think of the coming of fall, which is why she had chosen this date for their wedding. She’d ordered marigolds for her wedding bouquet because they were always her favourite. In fact, her bouquet had looked exactly like this one.

“You remembered,” she says. It’s with less surprise this time, more wonder.

“Of course,” says Frank. He always remembers now.

Skylar tugs at her balloon-sleeve. “Momma, you look nice.”

She laughs at him and boops his nose. “Thank you, sweetest.”

Pleased, Skylar runs away, back into the yard. A picnic waits for them there, and Mackenzie goes running after her brother, shrieking.

But Helena can only look at Frank. He grins at her, having grown handsomer with each passing day since his first change. She thinks she may love him again, after ten years. Eleven, now, and she feels that without regret. Whatever strange thing had taken him over, it had given her back her life, her joy. Was there a cost to all of this? There must be.

“Will you take our souls?” Helena asks abruptly.

Frank blinks, then chuckles. It’s a different voice, for a moment, a pleasant sort of lilting voice. It reverberates. Then, with his own voice, he says, “No.”

Helena nods. Then Skylar comes barrelling back in, as he does, speaking too quickly and connecting several dots that Helena can barely follow. He wants to have a picnic now.

In a swift motion, Frank has lifted their son up, thrown Skylar over his shoulder as the boy squeals with laughter. Frank breaks out into a run, nearly throwing Skylar to the ground, but gently. Mackenzie has already sat down, waves her arms happily as Frank leans down and kisses her little head.

_ You’re not my husband, _ Helena thinks as she steps out into the sun,  _ but I love you more. _

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following tumblr post:
> 
> [everyone please enjoy my new screenplay](https://bel-ennui.tumblr.com/post/618357536833323008/everyone-please-enjoy-my-new-screenplay)


End file.
